When Ink Forgets Its Old Rhythm

The letter curls at the edges

with words that loop and bloom,

careful swells—calm, fluent—

like a hand that once believed in room.

Beside it, my grocery list writhes

in cramped, shaky letters,

fatigue sprawling over the page

like tired breath in late nights.

I hold the pen lighter now,

a ghost of my own grip,

watching ink stretch thin,

slow as a fading pulse,

a hand that forgot the pace

of its own old rhythms.